


On the roads (we built our homes)

by rushingdevotion



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Scott McCall, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Lydia Martin, BAMF Sheriff Stilinski, Car Worshipping, Fluff and Angst, If that even exists, M/M, Minor Peter Hale/Lydia Martin, Mostly tooth rotting fluff, Near Death Experiences, Puppy Piles, Ridiculous Skittle related metaphors as a form of love confessions, Road Bonding, Road Trips, Rogue Alphas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 19:09:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1869105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rushingdevotion/pseuds/rushingdevotion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John Stilinski isn’t the wisest man on Earth. He might not know how to read a bestiary, but he knows how to read his son.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Why’d you go looking for answers if you’re not using the knowledge to your advantage?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Stiles just looks at him, hands clasped tight on the dining table, head hung low and shame running free at the truth in his father’s words.</i>
</p><p>Wherein Stiles takes the long, long road to self discovery and ends up crying wolf. Literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the roads (we built our homes)

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Caminos, carreteras y pedregales (donde construimos nuestros hogares)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/972468) by [rushingdevotion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rushingdevotion/pseuds/rushingdevotion). 



> This is a self-complacent translation of my own work, because I actually talk to no one in the Spanish fandom and it gets frustrating whenever I talk to someone about all the headcanon this fic gave me and they ask for a link and I can't provide one because it's not in English. Also, brit English user here, might spell funny.
> 
> Set somewhere in the hazy clusterfuck that is the season 3 mid break, this started out as a [Google Poetics prompt](http://25.media.tumblr.com/5f60b197cc59ff14285fbcd958601802/tumblr_mk5stzabx71rjggr6o1_1280.jpg) and ended up on crack and wheels. There are Winchesters, stupid metaphors, road motels and a writer crying in front of her keyboard after seven straight hours typing this beast and then nine months of translating. As a translation student, here's a warning, kids: translating is a tough job.
> 
> Unbeta'd, and I've read over it so many times I'm afraid I couldn't spot an error if I tried because the words have started to jumble together. Feel free to point out any and all mistakes! This is fairly low rating, there's a lot of cursing and a bit of violence, nothing too gorey, but if you think there's a trigger warning missing, tell me and I'll add it.

Stiles has never hoped, waited or expected anything in his whole life. Not like the other kids, anyway. He’s never waited to see dad appear by the window, like Scott. He’s never hoped for bitterness to devour him, like Derek. He’s never expected to wake up one day and be on top, like Jackson. He’s never longed for anything, and he’s learnt that it’s the best way to not grow restless.

He’s not about to start waiting now.

**

It seemed a fucking great idea, at first; his Jeep and his lonesome self, the roads ahead, miles and miles of freeways and secondary routes, gravel shifting under the tires, the soft growl of the engine revving up. Four hours into driving, following tirelessly and horizon that fades whenever he gets close, it stops being relaxing.

There comes a moment, after a bunch of missed calls that go straight to voicemail and the twelfth time his dad’s ringtone pierces the silence of his journey, when all he wants to do is swerve and brake and skid across the deserted highway for a moment. Have a panic attack, grip the wheel and reflect on the supernatural madhattery that his life has become, still in the last years of his tender puberty. His eyes dart upwards and for a long minute he stares at the ceiling of the car as if it holds the answers to all the deepest questions of the universe while he turns automatically, curve after curve, still entertaining the thought of halting the admittedly scarce traffic, putting the car on reverse, taking a sharp turn that burns the tarmac as the Jeep roars to life, and going back. Back home, where nothing’s average and no one’s worried for the right reasons but meh, there’s someone, and that’s more than can be said for the lonely paths ahead.

He doesn’t look back, in the end. Just keeps on driving, stops at a gas station to buy Skittles and chocolate bars. Vitamin water. Chicken sandwiches. He fills the tank, almost an afterthought.

On his way to the Jeep, it strikes him that he has no direction or destination and it’s late to drive now. The woods that spread sinuously to the side of the road hold no surprises to him anymore, which doesn’t mean he wants a taste of the several scary night creatures that inhabit it, or an up close encounter with their multiple sharp appendages. The harsh cliffs to his right don’t fare much better in Stiles list of places he’d want to drive by in the dark of dawn, because if there’s one thing Stiles knows about the ocean, it’s that no amount of flashlights will do to placate the vast opacity of salt water. In dragging the heel of his hand across his weary eyes, he accidentally hits himself with the bag hanging from his wrist, turns around and walks back into the tiny store. The clerk sends him a badly disguised look of superiority. 

“I need a motel. I mean, not a motel, just a room. Well, I need to know where’s the nearest one? You know, hum, I don’t know, could I find one around here? Not a spare room lying in the middle of the road or anything, or— I don’t mean _here_ here,” he stutters, throwing a suspicious look over the shoulder. “Because I don’t think you have any room in here but, you know dude. In the near vicinity. Somewhere to stay the night. Um, because I’m, heh, it’s a pretty long drive where I’m headed so.”

The clerk points to a cardboard stand with plenty of maps of Beacon County, then grabs one of them and slaps it on the counter. “Five dollars.”

Is this his life now? Stiles arches an eyebrow, clears his throat and takes a crumpled five from his back pocket.

“Keep the change,” he adds, chuckling to his cleverness. At this point in time, he can’t be arsed with being considerate to strangers. Or anyone, really.

Parked at the far corner of the gas station, throwing glances at the convenience store from time to time as if daring the clerk to say something, Stiles rests his feet on the dashboard, crossed at the ankles, retrieves a pen from the glove box and marks his exact position in the middle of fucking nowhere, dotting the map to the nearest motel. Which he passed less than thirty miles north, as he exited the last town he crossed. This means two more hours of driving, because going back, even if it’s just for the night, still means waiting instead of hunting. And Stiles isn’t all that eager to start waiting. He’s really, really not.

**

(He blatantly ignores the GPS on his cell, mostly because he knows if he sees all those missed calls, it will be harder and harder to forget about them and he’ll pick up the phone and he’ll drive to Beacon Hills again and that’s not a desirable prospect at all. That’s not what he was thinking when he threw together a bunch of clothes, several chargers, his laptop and the entirety of his book collection into a few boxes and loaded them into the trunk of the Jeep, closing it with a hard, definitive thump.

They’re all Scott’s, the texts. _Dude, what are you doing, why aren’t you picking up. Where’d you go you idiot. When I find you I’m gonna beat you to a pulp. No, seriously, you’ve got us worried over here. Could you at least hang up on me, so I know you’re deliberately not answering? If you’re ignoring me, you’re still alive right?_ Lydia texts, too. Calls him immature. Stiles laughs. They all seem to remember him when he screws up. It’s better than nothing.)

**

He barely gets any sleep the first night. It’s spent listening to the radio, on the hunt for any suspicious sounding incident, any lead –any excuse to drive up north again–, cross legged on the bed and still in his jeans and plaid, his frame bowing over the laptop screen. Staring ceaselessly at a blank document and the map he bought at the gas station while the red and yellow neons glow intermittently over his white, clammy skin. 

At the first touch of sunbeams spilling over the room, he slides his hands across the keyboard and slowly, with all the contained rage he can fit in his ribcage, the blinking bar starts vomiting words. He drags his fingers under the line of his lower lashes and clicks the laptop closed, not before making sure he’s saved the document where, at a disproportionate size, bold and underlined, he’s written his only goal.

Find Derek. Hand his ass over to him, because he’s a dirty asshat. Drag him back to Beacon Hills. Never mention this again.

There’s a small diner, run by the motel owners. Stiles wonders over the steaming, disgusting coffee from the machine by the hall why would he want Derek in town now that everything’s precariously starting to fall into place. Why drag into his life someone who’s put him through hell and back up from day one. Which is an unprecedented record, see. Scott’s screwed Stiles over an inordinate amount of times for the duration of their bromance; puberty hit Scott harder and one day he was suddenly hanging out with all the cool kids, and then there was that time he peed on Mrs. Wallace’s gardenias and blamed Stiles because he didn’t want to make his mum sad, and… And the list goes on. But the thing is, Derek has been like a reckless hurricane. Derek hit his life yesterday, and tomorrow he’ll have ruined Stiles completely as a semi-functional human being. At the pace he’s going, he might even ruin Stiles’ career as porn star, what with the continued danger of maiming.

Naturally, Stiles can’t find an answer that pleases him enough.

(Drowned by the background noise, he tries to overlook the sting he feels when he hears two dudes talking about hunting. He swallows down the memories of Derek standing between his people and harm’s way.)

**

The second night he spends on a lakeshore, somewhere between California and Arizona. He dials Scott’s number first and lets the waves speak for him. At dawn, he still hasn’t deciphered the stubborn motivation behind this little escapade. He still has no clue why thinking of Derek feels like betrayal, a knife twisting in his gut.

He hits Phoenix by noon and calls his dad from a payphone. He’s not brave enough to resist his pleas, but he’s still as ready as he’ll ever be to sit on his hands and expect Derek to run his merry way into California again. So he hangs up on the second ring.

**

A week after his departure, he’s reached Montana. It’s cold and eerily silent that night. Stiles gets an inkling, for the first time since he hit the road; a spark of hope and a delightful thrill, and although it’s probably a foolish thing to do, he storms out of the motel with a sturdy jacket hanging from his shoulder and all the braveness that comes with inexperience, and loses himself in the stillness of the forest, searching for a ripping howl or the butt of a gun to his head or _anything_. Watching for whatever roams this territory to feel irrevocably attracted to him and show its ugly face. Because a part of Stiles misses the danger and the adrenaline rush, and a part of him misses strategy and research, and of course, power. The biggest part of him, though, misses Derek yelling at him for putting their lives at stake, more than anything.

Stiles never misses that this conversation always happens after they all drop their weapons and hide their fangs and breathe in the delicious scent of power and life pulsing through their veins and living until the next sunrise. Whenever Derek says _everyone_ , Stiles hears _you, you Stiles, you looking to get yourself killed?!_ , and every _you’re a liability_ translates in his head to _I can’t lose any more_.

Stiles has only lost once in his short life. That’s not something he wants a second serving of. Not for him, not for his worst enemy.

The leaves crunching under his feet provide the only interruption to the steady stream of silence that surrounds him as he tiptoes deeper and deeper and deeper in the mess of aspen and sagebrush that closes in on him.

When he grows tired of standing still in the thick of the woods, shifting from side to side and toying with the caps of his hood strings, he slides to the floor, back to the rough bark of a fir, clasps his hands and rests them on his knees. The eight sunrise of his long, long journey rewards him with a distant howl that sounds nothing like Derek. It means there’s someone near, and that’s good enough for now.

**

Seven miles from Sioux City, in a dingy roadside diner, Stiles runs into the hunters he overheard that first night he spent in Santa Barbara. One of them is tall and lanky, with a mop of wavy hair that falls to his shoulders. The other one kinda reminds him of Derek in the way he holds himself, tense and stoic, looking out for whatever lurks on the borders of his vision. A third man in a beige trench coat that reminds him of John Constantine is following them round this time.

“I’m just saying, nothing’s happened yet,” Floppy Hair says, while Constant Vigilance stands from the table.

“And I’m just saying, we’re not gonna wait for it to happen, Sammy,” he answers, forcefully shoving his open palm onto Sammy’s chest.

“It’s Sam,” Sammy –or Sam? Stiles doesn’t really know– grits.

Constant Vigilance laughs the kind of quiet, carefree laugh of someone who has no more shits left to give, and the bell above them chimes when they exit the place.

(If he had an enhanced sense of hearing, or if he’d been a bit more attentive, Stiles would have heard about salt, wolfsbane, isolated attacks in secondary roads near Montana.)

**

Stiles doesn’t catch a break that night. He follows the Chevy he saw the three individuals get in because he’s still not sure where he’s headed and it doesn’t seem entirely terrible, as far as leads go, to follow a bunch of dudes who remind him of the Argents’ goons. They’re looking for game, in a way, aren’t they? Maybe not of the supernatural variety, but he hasn’t got a clue as to Derek’s whereabouts yet, there’s nothing on the papers, radio stations haven’t terrorized listeners with stories of beheaded hitchhikers so far and the three of them seem to be wandering aimlessly. Which can only mean they’re after someone or something because, really, three guys in a classic car travelling all the way from California to Iowa in pursuit of foxes and deer? Not your average hunting trip.

They park near a lake in the middle of the mountains to the left of the _fucking back of beyond_. Stiles turns and looks for the nearest motel praying to all the lesser gods he knows –and that includes an extensive collection of Pagan deities whose existence he only discovered through fortuitous, not very nice encounters with deranged cult followers in the Preserve– that they’ll stumble upon the same place and tip him into the right direction. 

In the end the praying turns out to be very unnecessary. Just as he enters, the owner, a fat old man with a grease stained wifebeater, gives him a deceptively rueful look and whistles pretentiously.

“Go home, kid.”

Stiles’ eyes don’t roam upwards at his voice. He methodically fills in the registry book with his personal info, lays his fake ID on the desk and hopes his determination will shut up that stupid fatass that looks at him as if Stiles were Bambi and he a starving hick.

“I’m looking for somebody,” Stiles answers unceremoniously, voice raspy with long days of disuse.

“Well hurry up then,” Stiles arches an eyebrow at the geezer while he hands him a key. “Mountain lions might find them first… Forty bucks a night,” he adds, changing topics as if he hadn’t just insinuated brutal death to an underage small town Sheriff’s kid out on a mission with moderate rates of (un)successfulness.

Scott texts him.

_Stiles, ur not after that mtn lion in IA, r u._

_Heeeey Scotty McHowl, my boy! No, not after the ‘mountain lion’, nope_ , Stiles answers.

_OMG ur totally in there arent u, look idk wat u looking for but thats not where its at._

In a sense, it stings that oblivious, never picks up on anything Scott has guessed before him what he was after when he jumped into his trusty Jeep and out of Beacon Hills. Even worse, ever the good friend, he hasn’t called him out on it. Scott’s giving him time to wrap his mind around the endgame of this stupid escapade.

It stings, because at this point in time Stiles isn’t even questioning his motives anymore, he’s just stuck waiting for something to happen, which the sagest amongst the sage will recognize as the opposite of what he was aiming for when he first slammed the gas pedal, and embracing the fact that he needs this. This is the one thing he thinks about, the one thing he still feels. The one thing that’s real and sharp and all consuming, that won’t stop ripping him piece by little piece until he can have Derek, inches away, to yell or say nothing at all and stare into him with all the ire he can scrape from the depths of his blackened heart. It only stops when he can have Derek burning on the insides and dissolving into a pile of ashes and regret for leaving his pack in the lurch. They’re his, they’re vulnerable without him.

(And Stiles is, too, sometimes. He can’t admit to it, though. He keeps telling himself this is all about poetic justice.)

In the end, can’t really stay mad at Scott for being smarter than him, at least in the muddy waters of emotional bonding, so he spends the night locked in the shabby motel room, looking out the window for the hunters’ Chevy, and calls his friend.

“You’re lucky to be alive you fucker!”

“Chillax Scotty. I don’t have a lot of time but I might have found something? I think.”

Scott stops breathing at the other end of the line.

“Some strange fellows in a Chevy Impala. Run into them in Santa Barbara, found them this morning near Sioux City. Been following them up to Storm Lake, they’re talking hunting and waiting for whatever to make the first move and the motel owner told me about—”

“Mountain lions!” Scott abruptly exclaims. “See that Stiles?”

He sounds like he’s pissing himself with the thrill and Stiles drags his palm across his face, rubs at his eyes, cursing at his friends’ childlike excitement.

“Yes Scott, I realized. Someone’s out for blood. And he’s been following me all the way from Montana.

Two blood curdling howls slash the silence and the Impala roars under his attentive gaze.

“Shit, I gotta go.”

“Hey, no, Stiles wa—” But Stiles hangs up the phone and grabs his red hoodie, taking the stairs three at a time and leaping into the Jeep before he can make sense of Scott’s broken warning.

Once is an incident, two’s a coincidence, and three… Three’s a pattern, and Constant Vigilance and friends fall right into the behavioral pattern of _Argent’s distant cousins._

**

The woods adjoining Storm Lake are dark and smell of wet soil. Stiles keeps watch from the Jeep, feet on the dashboard and hands laced behind his neck. The men open the trunk of the Chevy and, go figure, it’s well stocked with guns and jars full of powder and crystals that Stiles could recognize with his hands tied behind his back.

Silver glistens under the crescent moon while the two hunters split the ammo and charge their respective weapons of choice. Hellblazer dude looks round curiously until the shortest of them, the one that’s not Sam, thrusts a knife in his hand and slaps his shoulder while he chuckles to himself.

Stiles kicks open the glove box and withdraws a worn, tan leather holster, inspects the drum of the heavy revolver, three aconitum bullets in it. Sparing a fleeting glance to the strange fellows who walk away in long, carefully synchronized strides like a holy trinity of supernatural hunters, he gets out of the car and runs through the first rows of trees towards the Impala. Looking in both directions, he elbows the trunk lock and bites the cuff of his hoodie to muffle his cry of pain.

Still massaging the sore joint that feels like a thunderstorm factory set on frying up all the nerves in his arm, he opens the hidden compartment where he’s seen them hiding the weapons and sneaks a few bullets. At least three of his five shots are potentially deadly if he aims well.

Closing carefully the trunk, he weaves through the thicker underbrush, trying to make as little noise as possible. Still, he looks up at the sky and stops to listen once in a while, but again, there’s only silence.

For a second, he thinks he sees something at the far edge of his vision, so he leans on one of the sturdier trees and closes his eyes, making sure to take deep, even breaths.

(If there’s something he’s learnt from Derek is that werewolves are so, so very good with their ears. And Stiles’ pounding heartbeat must resound like a fucking brass orchestra right now.)

Near him, the leaves crunch under the weight of heavy boots and thank the Lord because boots means no feral werewolves are going to rip his throat out for the time being.

As always, peace isn’t long lasting.

Stiles peeks out behind the tree and catches a glimpse of a black figure with red flashing eyes, monstrous and clawed. Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second and then Stiles tears his gaze from the twisted face, following the beast. There, near him, pistol in hand, the Sammy dude is crouching in front of a tree, touching its wet bark and _please, please, please, let it not be what I’m thinking it is Jesus that’s gross._

If he had time, Stiles would definitely grimace, because Sammy’s fucking sniffing pee on a tree. Which means they’re in wolf territory and fuck, fuck, fuckity fucking fuck. Cold blooded in a way no one ever expects from skinny, human, good for nothing Stiles, who looks like he could crumble if the winds shake him hard enough, he levels the gun and aims. The wolf is about to pounce, salivating in preparation of a juicy meatfest, when Stiles pulls the trigger.

He barely has time to hear the deafening cry that assures him the shot’s been spot on before he notices the icky warmth of a heavy breath inches from him, and a thick bead of something trickles down the side of his neck. He’s still processing that there’s someone salivating all over him when the piercing pains takes over his thought process, the world tilting on its axis before his blown pupils. The last thing he sees before everything goes black around him are bloodied claws and a cruel, otherworldly grin.

There’s fast pacing every few seconds, yells, voices. A thundering, agonizing growl.

For the few seconds it takes him to sink back into sweet, inviting unconsciousness, there’s burning hands all over his face and someone shaking his frame, the taste of blood in his mouth.

“I can’t do it if he doesn’t consent, Dean.”

“Fuck, say yes! Are you in there? Say yes, dammit!”

Stiles downs in the seas of coma for a beat. When he’s brought back to his senses, the voices still ring in his ears.

“Saved Sam, d’you get it?” The voice sounds closer now, a poisonous whisper, and Stiles feels hands at the neck of his t-shirt. “You just say yes, kid. We’re gonna get you through this.”

Stiles repeats the lone syllable for what feels like a thousand times, descending in intensity, before his eyes roll in its sockets and sleep claims him for good.

**

Stiles comes to in the same motel room in Sioux City, with the TV on and the short, bossy dude lazily strewn in bed, changing channels and not minding one bit that there’s a comatose kid at the feet of his mattress.

“Hey, look. Red Riding Hood has blessed us all with his presence.”

Stiles looks down at his red hoodie, torn to shred on the right side, and grimaces in despair. It was one of his favorites, and on top of that the bad joke just serves to remind him of Derek. The man stands up in one fluid move and towers by his side, lending him a hand to get off the floor.

“Dean Winchester. Hunter.”

Still perplexed, Stiles shakes the proffered hand weakly.

“Stiles Stilinski. Walking miracle?”

Dean coughs a very ill disguised laugh and throws the door open, pops his head out to the patio that connects the other rooms.

“Hey Sammy, kid’s awake!”

The tall, lanky one and Hellblazer walk into the room shortly after.

“What’ve we got?”

“Nada,” answers Dean, closely examining Stiles, “For now.”

“It’s Sam,” Sammy-Sam-whatever nips, throwing a half amused, half derisive look Dean’s way, and Stiles thinks, that’s what Derek and him must look from the outside.

Suddenly, Sam’s everything changes. His expression, his stance, Stiles bets his whole face would morph if it was possible. And Stiles feels attacked by two bad cops and a guy who looks every inch as awkward as he is.

“Whatcha doing in here?” Sam asks, looming over Stiles because hey, he’s fucking tall.

Stiles takes three steps back, hands outstretched behind and groping for purchase until he hits the bed and falls hard on his ass. Seated on the ratty mattress, he lifts his gaze, eyes wide as saucers.

“Looking for someone. Someone I already found. And I’m not gonna look for him anymore, that back there in the forest was freaky man, that… that wasn’t a mountain lion,” he croaks in his best imitation of a scared teenager.

(Unluckily, as good as Stiles has become at lying, the hunters aren’t buying his shit.)

Dean closes in on Sam, rests a hand on his chest, pushes him back with a tired sigh.

“Listen kid, let’s talk this out in front of a stack of pancakes.”

Stiles can’t really say no, so. At least he’s getting free breakfast.

**

These Winchester men _are_ hunting for things that go bump in the night. And the day. And all kinds of things, judging from such picturesque tales as the one with the suicidal teddy bear and the archangel that sent them inside the TV grill.

Dean does slap his back a bit too forcefully for busting the lock on the trunk of his car, which he seems to love with just as much devotion as Stiles loves the Jeep, and they bond over inherited cars. After all, it’s not like they have anyone else by their sides. Stiles dares say it’s a small relief, knowing they might be following Derek’s trail.

“So, aconitum and rowan tree,” Sam repeats, taking mental note.

“Aren’t you a bit too brave for such a little thing, Stiles?” Dean asks, arching a brown and snorting.

“I’ve told you already, I’m looking for someone. Give me some credit here, I’ve risked my life for this dude so many times I’m not even counting anymore,” he mutters, wolfing down the last bite of pancakes and making a show of licking his lips clean of syrup.

“Hey, hey, chew your food would ya, you’ve been unconscious for a week, no need to strain your innards!”

Sam and Constantine alternate between staring at him and Dean, both equally baffled. Dean swallows and starts laughing heartily. Stiles looks at them all as if they were madmen. What the actual fuck.

“Nice car,” Dean adds. “Next time, don’t leave it on the curb.”

Stiles lets go of the breath he’s been holding since he got in the backseat of their car.

**

Hellblazer –aka Castiel– and Stiles tail the Winchesters. Dude’s not very talkative.

They make it to Angel Fire, New Mexico, by morning. Stiles looks sideways at Castiel and smirks. Castiel understands nothing at all.

Stiles phones Scott, tells him he’s okay. That he’s on to something. That he can’t discuss further.

Scott shoots the million dollar question.

“What are you doing all this for?”

That’s not an answer Stiles has. Not yet, anyway. Probably not until he comes face to face with Derek.

**

They have breakfast on the corner booth of a cafeteria downtown. Dean makes the waitress swoon with a cocky smile and Sam debriefs him, not without a hint of stubbornness. They check the papers. Animal attacks in the forest just out of town. The ones who jumped them in Iowa are gone, but there’s probably a new Alpha on a biting spree somewhere close by. And his Betas are definitely out of control.

Stiles opens his laptop on the table and zooms in on Gerard Argent’s bestiary, and Dean looks at him like he would look at a little child, dubious and patronizing, never letting the Impala out of sight.

“Oh, we have one of those too, don’t we, Sammy?” Dean snickers.

Stiles can’t help but feel utterly ridiculous, because of course those dudes know _everything_ and they probably have a bestiary the size of Texas, but when Dean’s lips start moving frantically, his eyes scanning the screen before him, he grabs for his brother and murmurs, _hey Sam, look at this_.

Stiles launches into a detailed explanation of what it means, in his experience, to be a werewolf.

“And there’s humans within the packs,” Sam repeats incredulously.

Stiles nods.

“And so we’re looking for your Alpha?”

Stiles hits his head on the table and groans.

“No. We’re looking for, well, Derek,” he offers, slightly embarrassed. “He’s an Alpha. Or, he used to, anyway. My pack’s Alpha. But he’s not the Alpha, I mean. The one that’s gone feral and bites and maims and kills, that one we already took care of. One of his Betas must’ve taken on the role, though. And the new Alpha must be seeking vengeance,” Stiles explains everything the way he’d explain a fable, unaware of the importance of his words.

“Can’t his Betas trace him by his scent?” inquires Dean, who looks far more irritated than curious.

Stiles sighs and drops atop the table, too exhausted to care about manners. “… Not really? Alphas can mask their scent. You know, it’s an Alpha thing. I don’t know how it works but hey, huh, _werewolves_ , so. I’m past questioning any of their crazy shit.”

“And why are we looking for him again?” asks Castiel from his place beside Stiles.

And even if the man seems to be at a greater loss than Christopher Columbus when he discovered America, he hits jackpot.

Stiles still can’t answer. But he skirts around the question with a modicum of dignity intact. Or so he thinks.

“I don’t know, there’s no one else willing to help. It happened once, back in Beacon Hills you know, and he solved it,” Stiles assures, looking at nothing in particular, his tone descending more and more until i becomes the shadow of a question.

(Dean seems to be the most perceptive of the three, but if he catches on his insecurity, he says nothing. The look he sends Stiles’ way makes him slightly uncomfortable, though, because it hints at something he’s not sure he wants to explore.)

**

Stiles spends the night narrowing down the attacks and stabbing with thumbtacks the wrinkled map he bought almost a month ago at a service station two hours from Fresno.

Sam reminds him of Scott. For the first time since he started this, Stiles is convinced that he wants to go back. But he’s also convinced that he’s nearing his target. And that he wants to make peace with himself, his conscience, his racing thoughts.

(When Dean starts awake, he finds Stiles asleep on the armchair, knees drawn up and clutching the remains of his red hoodie. On the map, a white thumbtack stick out, an angry circle around it. Dean walks all over a stack of papers to get a close view. There’s an enormous arrow floating over California, touching the northern limit of Beacon County. There, underlined, Dean finds the name of the Beacon Hills Natural Preserve. Off to the right, a small, faint trace, almost a secret, the silhouette of two words. Derek Hale.)

**

It takes them almost thirty hours to drive to Olympia, Washington, and all through the last leg of the trip Stiles feels a strange sense of anticipation that buzzes in his bloodstream. They drive across Colorado, Wyoming and Utah without rest. They stop for a nap in Salt Lake City. They’re to Idaho when night falls, but they never stop. Through the packed treeline on both sides of the road, Stiles picks up sometimes a howl and he sees them racing on treetops, moving beside them along the secondary roads that run all through the heart of the state. But they never get too close.

Their last stop drags them to Oregon, where the radio warns about a recent attack. Two victims, young hikers. Their bodies haven’t been retrieved. At this pace, Vengeful Rogue Alpha’s going to assemble the fucking Invincible Army. By the time they stop in Washington it’s earlier than it was when they took off in New Mexico.

Dean forces Stiles to rest while he and Sam set up the ambush. For some undisclosed reason, Stiles gets the feeling that Castiel is going to play bait. And he feels thankful that he’s not at risk of becoming werewolf fodder for once. He’s had enough of imminent death situations to last him a lifetime.

His cellphone rumbles in his pocket.

“He’s not too far away,” Scott’s voice is hushed and half growl, half squeak. “Isaac got a hold of his scent today. Where are you?”

“Hey, I know. Okay, listen, I’m in Olympia Scotty. And I need you here like, yesterday.”

The line goes silent in California.

**

Dawn is starting to spill and Stiles is restless, an anxious wreck of anticipation and reluctance because after all these sleepless weeks, reflecting on what he’s doing and what happens next, he’s still at a loss as to what’s going to come between Derek and him, other than time and a breeze. On the other side of the door, footfalls break the silence. Throwing a grim look at the three men in the room, he tiptoes out the door and it closes with a soft click behind him and immediately after he shoulders it to ensure it _is_ closed, he reaches into his pocket for the key. He curses his clumsiness, sighing as he palms the jagged bulge on his back pocket. Yet another smooth Stilinski move.

And then there’s Scott and Isaac staring back at him. On both sides, Lydia with her all-knowing pout and Jackson, whose expression Stiles can only compare to that of someone who’s recently had a nice, long stick lodged up his ass. Balanced on the railing, stealthy enough that Stiles wouldn’t have seen her hadn’t he been searching for her, Allison yields an automatic crossbow in her right hand.

Lydia, as terrifying as she’ll ever be, takes the first step towards him and bitchslaps him across the face. Everything around her smells of strawberry chewing gum and she pops a bubble in his face.

“Okay, you donkey, now we know you’re still alive we can start plotting your demise.”

Dean picks that moment to throw the door open, and Stiles stumbles backwards and hits his chest. He stills with the speed of Usain fucking Bolt and steps aside to let the eldest Winchester deal with the committee.

“Hey, calm down,” Dean’s hand falls heavily on Stiles shoulder and squeezes. “No killing. For now.” 

Stiles’ eyes just jump from one person to the next, completely clueless. Lydia looks ready to bite someone. Jackson seems to have taken offence for her. Isaac growls, eyes glowing a rich amber under the moon and fangs lengthening in his mouth. Allison lifts the crossbow and aims for Dean.

It’s Scott who bars an arm in front of them, placating, sweeping his hand in a semicircular motion before offering it to Dean. “This is my pack.”

Dean nods and hums, glances over his shoulder where Sam’s still in bed and Castiel’s fumbling with the TV remote.

“That’s mine.”

“I’ve heard that you’re… hunters?” asks Scott, his serious façade faltering a bit.

“Yeah,” agrees Dean. “Supernatural hunters,” he adds smirking lopsidedly, as if trying to sell them something.

“We don’t like hunters near our territory.”

“Huh, someone’s _pissy_ ,” Dean whistles, fixing Scott with a wicked smile, and arches an arrow at Stiles. Stiles, who is currently still trying not to laugh because _dog jokes_ , they never get old. “We’re more like… ghostbusters. We save people. Pups aren’t our usual gig, if they’re not trouble.”

Scott lets out a low bark and a string of chills shoot right through Stiles and when has his best friend become such a charismatic leader, huh?

Dean and Scott enter into some kind of staring contest in which they communicate by brain waves or something, because in the end Dean shuffles aside and lets them in with a mock curtsey, and wow, that was one hell of a showdown.

“Welcome dudes. Remember, today we rest. Tomorrow, we hunt.”

**

And hunt they do.

In a disconcerting display of wits, and it’s not that Stiles thinks Scott is stupid –confer Gerard Argent and the Black Pills of Gooey Doom–, it’s just that he’s not the brightest crayon on the box, Scott suggests puppy piling Castiel. For scenting and stuff. Jackson, Isaac and Scott all nestle around him and sleep the night away.

Allison shows Castiel the basics of crossbow shooting, in case of extreme danger, but mostly for props. After all, they don’t exactly want to reveal his celestial powers after all they’ve gone through to mask his scent; no wolf, feral or otherwise, is foolish enough to stalk on him, and they kind of need Castiel to bait a bunch of them. With any luck, they aren’t half as resourceful as Stiles is, and he plans on exploiting the hell out of their lack of skill.

Lydia and Stiles do the math and come up with the estimate of Betas they’ll be facing, while the Winchesters fill bullet casings with aconitum and roll them over in mountain ash, courtesy of Lydia.

When day comes, they have breakfast in relative silence and lay to rest. Stiles feels again that weird buzzing through his spine, a live wire fraying his nerves. He dreams of the forest and the old Hale house. He dreams of the claws that etched indelible scars onto his flesh. The dying howl of the Alpha and the hot breath that brought him within an inch of his life. He wakes up covered in sweat at nine, and around him a human chain handles, loads and polishes gun in the utmost darkness, the busy calm only tainted by the metallic clang of weapons that fly along the string of arms and the dry grind of the barrels spinning and locking with a click.

“Rise and shine, Little Red, we don’t have all night!” greets Dean from the other end of the room.

The skies in Olympia are open and starry, and the moon rises imposingly above them. Dean closes the door behind them with an air of finality.

“Cass, come with me and the pups. I’m warning you now,” he raises his voice, turning to stare at them all. “This car is worth more than your lives. Stiles, you take the ladies. We’ll be meeting at the gates of Watershed Park.

Sam complains faintly in the background, _I’m not a lady, Dean!_ , and Dean puts a hand to his mouth and snorts, his shoulders shaking with mirth.

Stiles nods decidedly and opens the doors for Allison and Lydia, that looks at him as if she’s seeing an apparition.

“Thanks Stiles. At least I’m still your queen of hearts,” she says, grimacing and crossing her arms over her chest impatiently.

Oh, if looks could kill. And Stiles didn’t love her so fiercely. Then he would _definitely_ glare her to death.

(Truth is, for the first time since he left Beacon Hills in a cloud of dust, much poorer but also much wiser and seasoned, Stiles admits to himself the endgame here. The niggling _what for_ that booms and echoes around his numb skull. In the end, what he wants is to drag Derek back by his ears and make sure he’s alright and brow beat him into at least texting once a month, because there’s a selfish, overriding need to know that he’s alive and kicking. It’s a feeling, okay. Stiles isn’t going to stop and dissect it. It’s there. And that’s enough.)

Fifteen minutes go by in a breeze, accustomed as he is to follow the Winchesters as they dart back and forth across border lines, and he parks half a mile from them in unsettling silence. He hops off the Jeep and perches an arm on the upper frame of the door, scanning the area for Dean just in time to hear a seething growl ripping the quiet of night.

Scott’s the first to point out, “That’s the Alpha!”, nudging Castiel towards the park gates.

“And that’s gotta be Derek,” Stiles adds with finality when a serene bark bounces around the trees and over the steady murmur of a water spring.

He bangs the Jeep closed and dashes to the trunk, hands Allison her crossbow and makes sure his Magnum’s loaded. This time, all of his shots are lucky shots.

Scott, Isaac and Jackson let the claws out. Isaac looks mildly amused, even. Knowing him, probably turned on, that’s sicko. But Stiles loves his pack too much to judge them on such trifles.

Howling to each other, they scatter through the forest, and the ladies, or, more accurately, the femmes fatales, because they’re fucking dangerous and Lydia looks unsurprisingly vicious. The Winchesters bring up the rear, following Stiles’ treading steps. Stiles finds himself alone before long, although right at the edge of his vision he can make out the infantry all around him; Allison’s sitting idly atop a tree with her bow aiming for the small clearing ahead, Castiel a few feet in front of her. Isaac and Scott flank the opening from the south, where a waterfall swallows the thrum of their frantic hearts. Jackson is leaning on the bark of a pine tree, high up on a branch, too, and Stiles can make an educated guess that Lydia must be below him, waiting to give further instructions.

At the edge of the cascade, Peter, who just had to make a dramatic entrance, smiles at Stiles and he feels _powerful_ , sure that the plan will go without a hitch.

Not a few minutes pass and the leaves start crumbling under a pair of feet and the dirt around them quakes with a million piercing, vindictive howls. A feminine figure that sways in a way so reminiscing of Erica that it spears across Stiles’ soul struts her way towards him and Castiel.

For a couple nerve wracking seconds they stare at each other and Stiles shoots his arm in front of Castiel, guarding him. Trailing after the last of the enemy pack, the barrels of two guns gleam and the Winchesters position themselves at the edges, taking advantage of the neophyte werewolves’ lack of control over their enhanced senses, weapons pointed at the Alpha’s head. Stiles sends a prayer to whichever god that let them have this small mercy.

“Your pack is powerful, Stiles,” she singsongs admiringly while she scoots closer to Castiel and runs thin, long fingers over his jaw. “But foolish. A fatal flaw, I’d say.”

At her words, at least half a dozen goons that can’t be much older than eighteen or twenty march forward with somber demeanors, their amber eyes staring longingly at the orb that reigns over the dark night.

“You came for us. This is the first full moon for many of them…”

She circles around Stiles and Castiel like a vulture flying over her prey, again and again, and Stiles grits his teeth to contain a bone deep chill that electrifies him inside out.

“You killed my mate. I must take your life in return. That’s the way of the werewolves,” she halts in front of Castiel, sniffing him, and Sam and Dean carefully inch closer while Allison closes her fist around the trigger and presses slightly, ready to fire. “But they can survive. I’ll give them that change. We could be so strong together,” she rambles, thirst for both power and blood radiating from her voice.

Stiles palms Castiel’s chest twice, then once again, and Isaac, Jackson, Peter and Lydia come forward.

“You must be strong to have Peter Hale at your beck and call. Even to newly bitten wolves like us, his fame precedes him. As I was saying, such a shame that you’re so impertinent. Pups!” she barks, smiling sideways at her own joke, and the Betas behind her howl at the full moon that starts to grace the clearing with its light.

At her command, they start closing in on Stiles, contorting in pain and yelling like the rabid dogs that they are, all claws, fangs and explosive fury.

“You can spare them now, or watch them die trying to protect you.”

That’s Scott’s cue to reveal himself. The woman snaps her head so quick Stiles gets secondhand whiplash, inhaling desperately the breeze around her for the source of this new smell that Stiles can’t pick up but must be cloying her nostrils. Stiles makes himself useful in the ensuing confusion by pushing Stiles four feet backwards.

“Aim for disabling, not—” he yells over the noise, just as Lydia shrieks like hell is opening at her feet and the Winchesters fire the first bullets, effectively bringing down the two gorillas leading the enemy pack, “kill,” he snorts lowly, eyes wide as saucers as he draws his gun.”

“That’s— You’re not the Alpha!” the woman bellows, her red eyes pinning Stiles.

“You never asked,” he shrugs with a self-satisfied smirk.

Peter Hale, the big beast, tackles the woman out of Stiles’ way, slashing her skin while she struggles out of his grip and two or three of her Betas dangle from Peter’s back, trying to drive him away from her.

Amidst the makeshift battleground, Stiles hides plasters himself to an elm and looks skyward, where Allison’s sight is focused on Peter. Crouching under the leafy treetop, Stiles peeks his head out and a wandering bullet scratches his shoulder.

“Sorry man, occupational hazards!” Dean hollers from the place where the waterfall flows into a stream. 

Stiles once again grits his teeth and bears the pain, shooting blindly and catching in the hand a particularly aggressive Beta who was trying to scalp Lydia. Jackson claws her away and swings her into the deep end of the creek, where she waddles uselessly until she passes out on the riverbank, and Isaac hooks by the belt loop a brat who clung to Peter’s arm and crashes him against a nearby three, roaring in his face for good measure, and also because Stiles knows Isaac secretly loves being in charge. Peter, meanwhile, seems unbothered by the action going on around him, too busy trying to subdue the Alpha

For a single frightening second she untangles herself from Peter and stands, running towards Stiles, all of her anger blasting at him. For killing her mate. For playing her. For making her fall for such a dumb trap. For defying her authority in front of her Betas. For everything.

He barely sees her coming at him full speed before he finds himself hanging five inches from the ground, a sharp, deadly claw tracing his jugular.

The universe stops. At least for Stiles. And if it doesn’t, well, the gory face-off does. Two betas still stand, and from her vantage point Allison lowers her bow, even though she’s still safe and unnoticed, her scent masked completely by the pungent smells of sweat and blood around her. 

Scott chances a look at her, willing her to stay put. Isaac squeezes Scott’s forearm. Castiel stares deeply –which is the only kind of stare for him anyway– into Dean’s and then Stiles’ souls, and Stiles nods, almost inconspicuous. At once, Castiel nods at Dean.

The woman smiles, pupils blown in excitement, and howls until the echoes ricochet off into the deep ends of the forest.

“Was this what you were after? A human?” She roars at the sky, a sumptuous, evil laugh resounding hollowly in the dark.

No one so much as dares to breathe too loudly. An answering snarl splinters the night, getting closer, intense and savage, stopping short atop the waterfall. A dark, regal silhouette with deep blue abysses for eyes lands smoothly few paces from her, growling imperceptibly. 

The wolf scours the terrain, jumping effortlessly over the bodies of the unconscious Betas, sniffs the Winchesters and Castiel and tilts its head to look at Allison in passing. With small, cautious steps, it closes the distance and the Alpha turns around, still pressing Stiles against the tree and barking warningly. The wolf rises on its hind legs and barks loud enough that Stiles can feel the sound rippling through his body and the tree trembles behind him.

“He killed my mate!” she cries out, letting Stiles slide down and stalking towards the wolf. “You know what that means!”

The wolf just gives her this amazingly intense stare, breathing hard and frenzied, and growls again.

“What do you mean that—” Her eyes glaze over, her voice quivering at the last word. “I— I didn’t know that! I though he was, I thought you’d pledged allegiance to him, that’s— I thought you followed him because he was your Alpha, not— I didn’t think you were looking after him!” she babbles, retreating. The words stick to her throat, the fangs retract, her body curling in on itself in panic.

The thing, and Stiles feels the need to point out that it’s a really big thing and by the unfolding of events it’s probably a Derek thing, rumbles lowly this time, and the Alpha looks at it, or him, her face the vivid image of fright. The scream pierces the air just seconds after a sharp claw pierces her abdomen side to side, and she falls, bleeding, to her knees. The wolf –Derek, Stiles tries to think, but it’s also obviously a fucking animal and Stiles isn’t up to date with werewolf pronoun etiquette– skirts around her as if she wasn’t screaming her guts out, as if her shrill cries weren’t perforating his eardrums, and circles Stiles. Then he stills at his feet, raises his head and pushes his _muzzle_ what the actual fuck into Stiles’ hand. Stiles thumbs his fur and smiles weakly, his insides erupting with relief and a totally misplaced sense of everything being in its right place while those who are still standing witness the exchange, absorbed at first then baffled. Stiles, a bloodied animal right on his heels, kneels to face the Alpha and cocks his head aside patronizingly because there are a lot of things one can indulge in when there’s a furry killing machine wagging its tail beside him.

“Here’s a warning.” And he abruptly rises to his feet. “Party’s over guys.”

Not a word is uttered. Allison’s the first to land with a thud, staring at the beast with respect written all over her features, and strides towards Scott. Lydia sits back on her heels beside Peter, her fingers brushing his forehead and scowling at him, and Castiel, as lost as ever, claps Dean’s shoulder. Dean, for his part, looks like he’s seen a particularly odd ghost. Which, for a dude who hunts them for a living, is kind of funny.

Stiles doesn’t look back. Everybody seems to be doing okay.

(The ten minutes he spends waiting for everyone to regroup are the most awkward he’s ever experienced. Wolfy Derek, stunning and defiant, nuzzles Stiles’ hips and rounds him, flicking his tail and perking his ears threateningly. It’s nothing compared to the fifteen minute drive to the motel: Sam, Stiles, Jackson and a big, presumptuous dog in the backseat of the Jeep, howling scornfully each time Lydia and Allison, riding Peter’s back, overtake them.)

**

The room is cramped with half a dozen orphaned Betas that, of course, are all headed towards Beacon Hills to negotiate the terms of their status and new condition. They sleep in a comically oversized pile of limps at the corner of the room, and some of them even whimper sadly and kick around like stray dogs with night terrors.

“That’s— That’s one of the weirdest things I’ve seen in a long time,” mutters Sam, dumbfounded, and shrugs. “What’s with the wild dog, anyway?”

Stiles could skin Sam alive, right then, right there. But he doesn’t, because the Camaro purrs delicately and the sound soaks him through, ears to toes, like a very expensive, very exclusive, very arousing balm. As if he needed permission, he chances a look at Lydia, who’s tending to Peter’s wounds.

“Go. That’s what we came for.”

Stiles nods half-heartedly and gets up as quietly as he can, closing the door behind him and tiptoeing down the stairs. Under the stairwell, Derek’s reclining on the wall, his whole stance vaguely menacing, all five o clock shadow and leather jacket and the smell of pinewood and ash that always swirls around him and Stiles pinpoints even without an extraordinary sense of smell.

They stare each other down at first.

“Where’s Cora?” Stiles blurts out. It’s definitely not what he had in mind, but it gets a conversation started so he tells himself he just killed two birds with one stone and moves on.

Staring at him terrifyingly still, Derek huffs. “Gone. Anything else?”

“I wanted you to come back, I… Well, I want you to not have left, but you can’t undo what’s done and stuff so,” Stiles grouses.

Derek loses the staring contest, nods, swallows the lump in his throat. Stiles gears up for the oncoming word vomit.

“So I went out to find you. I couldn’t just, what, stand and tap my feet on the ground and know you could be literally anywhere in the world and I have no idea why it’s so mandatory to me knowing that you’re doing fine but hey, I guess at the end of the day that’s… Not important. What matters is that we need you to keep Beacon Hills safe and personally I kinda want to know your idiocy didn’t get yourself killed, and I can’t if you don’t, y’know, send a postcard or two after the full moon, let me know you didn’t skin yourself alive.”

Derek takes a step towards Stiles, lifts his arm as if about to reach out, thinks twice and lets it drop at his side. “It was something I had to do for myself,” he mutters, a familiar strain to his words. Stiles nods dejectedly. “I had to clear my head, get a glimpse of the bigger picture. After Cora…”

Stiles grips his shoulder, eyes downcast, and answers gravely. “I guess I’ll see you when you’ve sufficiently cleared your head.”

He starts his walk of shame towards the stairs, gaze lingering on the Camaro for a couple seconds, committing its lines to memory for the long months he won’t see it racing around town, and takes the first step upwards. Until, in what might possibly be the biggest scare of the night –yes, this scores above the Alpha shoving him up against a tree–, a huge hand curls around the back of his neck and carelessly yanks back. The backs of Stiles’ thighs bump against the hood of the Camaro, the alarm goes off and Stiles yelps. 

“Dude, you’re gonna terrorize me to death!”

Derek snaps at him, because Stiles didn’t have enough in his plate as it was. “I’m not the textbook definition of collected right now, Stiles,” Still fuming, Derek tugs Stiles away from the car, that stops bleeping almost instantly, and Stiles’ jaw drops in disbelief. “I didn’t make myself very clear, probably. I guess my head’s as clear as it’ll ever get.”

(Lydia will deny it to her dying day, but she sneaks out the door the moment she hears the alarm and waves at everyone that’s awake to follow her. They do a poor job of disguising themselves in the admittedly dark shadows projected by the door, piping up from the railing of the stairs. There’s a _wager_ going on.)

“So?” Stiles scowls, arms crossed atop his chest.

“So I guess you win.”

Stiles carefully eyes his surroundings, lets out a long breath that expels the adrenaline coiling his body tight, and as the pain starts to insinuate itself, he throws caution to the wind and with and unsteady step, he draws closer to Derek, grips the collar of his leather jacket, staring down at him as if daring him to chicken out, and bites on Derek’s bottom lip.

Suffice it to say, Derek is dumbstruck. Stiles tilts his head and lets out a little howl, winking at Derek coyly, and marches up the stairs in peals of laughter, clear as the sky above them. When he finds the bunch of eavesdroppers, he shakes his head.

Scott stands up and grins. “Dude, you just won me eighty bucks. Will you forgive me if I pay for your next drinking spree?”

“Yeah,” Stiles chuckles and stomps all the way into the room, flushing and cursing under his breath.

**

They leave at sundown. The Winchesters and Castiel agree to stay just a little longer, negotiate, and see about an alliance. It’s always good to have friends on the other side of the fence and whatnot. Jackson and Isaac ride with them, following the Camaro once they figure they’re utterly useless at giving directions.

Scott, Allison and Lydia, two Betas in tow and four more squished in the back of the Jeep roaring at the moon bring up the rear. For two hours, they glide over the asphalt in an unequivocally straight line, Dean, Sam and Castiel trying to make sense of the bizarre situation they’ve just got out of, even in the absurdity that plagues their fractured tale of a living; Lydia and Allison deciding how to invest the money the won placing bets on Stiles’ virtually inexistent love life while Scott glares daggers at them through the rearview mirror, and Peter, running beside him, curls his lips –are they still lips if he’s a big scary wolf mutation?– in what probably qualifies as a smile, as far as canine expressions go. As mysterious as ever, the fucker. 

Derek and Stiles share the most painful silence in the history of ever.

Just out of Portland, the Camaro takes a detour and gets lost in the dirt. Stiles sleeps for seven hours straight. When he floats back to wakefulness, digging the heels of his palms to chase away the fatigue still hanging on his lashes, they’re driving across Ravendale, California, and Stiles is, without the slightest hint of doubt, at a true loss.

“Dawn is breaking,” Derek helpfully provides.

Shortly after, they stop for breakfast and Stiles feels the end of his journey in the bone deep ache that stabs his abused muscles with every breath, the kinks he can’t quite work away, the burn behind his eyelids. He leans on the side of the car in a Starbucks parking lot, still bathed in the half light of the dying night. The smell of rain –because it’s been raining, started back at Lakehead, and the windows are clouded with condensation and it’s cold enough that his breath fogs and there are rain puddles on the pavement– clogs the heavy atmosphere between them. Stiles brings a hand to his injured shoulder and Derek, for the first time in many months, stops and stares and catalogues every cut, every scar, every scrape and bruise.

He fits a warm, big hand around Stiles’ neck, thumb hovering above his pulse point. If Stiles had to describe the sensation that swarms him, it would be a little like having a Dementor suck his soul through his mouth, and then again in reverse. Not that he’s ever felt it, though, but the analogy is good enough for him. Little by little, the itch of the tight hot skin around his wounds disperses like air wheezing out of an open valve. In the end, there’s only a deep seated urgency to crawl in bed and never emerge again.

They eat under the muted glow of a yellowish lamp, blanketed by the hot air blowing from the industrial air conditioners and the thick accents of vanilla, coconut and freshly brewed coffee; they unwind listening to the paused tattoo of rain beating down on the windows. Derek doesn’t let Stiles out of sight.

**

They’re a hundred and twenty five miles from Beacon County when Derek slows down and swerves unexpectedly into a muddy path.

“We used to come when I was a kid,” he offers as only explanation.

Twenty minutes after, they stop by a lake. Stiles sits at the edge of the shore, legs hanging over the still surface. Derek lays both hands on Stiles’ shoulders. It’s a small comfort, for whom he doesn’t know.

“Why didn’t you kill her?”

“I’ve done enough of that already.”

There is nothing Stiles can possibly say to that, so he remains quiet.

“I didn’t want you to see that again,” Derek adds, a short lived afterthought.

“I wouldn’t have judged.”

Derek’s hand slides up to his neck, his thumb presses into the tender flesh and the soft hair behind his earshell.

“Why didn’t she kill me?”

Eyes trained on the dark, unshakable mass of water, Derek sighs dramatically and Stiles tilts his head back and gives him a lopsided, quirky grin.

“Stiles, you killed her partner. I’m sure you figured that out on your own.”

“And?”

Derek rolls his eyes so hard they might as well roll, roll, roll down into the depths of the lake.

“She kills you, I have to kill her,” he growls awkwardly.

“Like that killer chick from Twilight?”

“Yeah, just like that.”

Stiles smirks, a little bit secretive, a little bit like the heavens just parted and God came upon him and whispered in his ear the meaning of life and it was something ludicrously silly like _pancakes_ or _rainbow dragons_ , and reaches out for Derek’s hand and curls his fingers around Derek’s and holds fast.

“Were you following me?”

“No.”

“All the better.” He stands, still holding onto Derek, shoots a puzzling look his way and starts towards the car.

**

“I was.”

“Huh?” prompts Stiles.

“I was.” Derek clears his throat. “Following you. Just, don’t put yourself on the line like that again.”

“Now I just don’t get it, Derek.”

Derek looks heavenward, gripping the steering wheel as if it were at fault for Stiles’ ingenuity. The road, wet and dark, flows ahead of them, a long, winding way towards a still faraway destination.

“I just bordered Beacon County at first. Made sure everything felt… alright,” he murmurs, his words dimmed under the steady pulse of rain. He rolls down the windows just enough to let the wind and petrichor permeate. Distantly, a thunderclap splinters the suffocating silence they’ve fallen into. “I had my own reasons for taking a vacation after everything that happened with Cora and I was no one to chase you down and tell you off for skipping town, but. You had to go and involve yourself with the Winchesters. They’re something of a supernatural hunting legend, and you had to trail after them, of all the people, Stiles.”

He’s grinding his teeth to dust. 

Stiles just can’t look at him. Focusing on a nearby road sign, rigid in his seat, he sucks in greedily the balmy scent of rainwater and brings his hands to his face, his voice but a muffled echo.

“You can’t guilt trip me for wanting to find you,” he whines piteously.

“I’m not trying to. I’m just. I was following you. You want to know why. Better get it out of the way now.” With a shaky intake of breath, he turns carefully on the poorly paved road, senses trained on the miles ahead and behind and the cars coming their way. “Scott can strut around in his brand new Alpha skin to his heart’s content, I’ll still owe you loyalty.”

There’s something of a threat in the way his fingers clench and relax and a faint growl running low in his sore throat. There’s something of a dare for Stiles to prove him wrong.

Stiles tries to articulate a word once, twice, three times, wracking his brains for a coherent answer, any one, gaze fixed on Derek. When he finally gets his throat to click and work, there’s an open, earnest expression softening his features. “Don’t feel like you owe me an explanation. Or anything, really. I’m just as loyal. I wouldn’t have expected less from you.”

It might be the wisest thing Derek’s heard from Stiles in a fucking long time. If it is, and if Derek keeps this thought to himself, it’s no one’s business but his.

“I’m not a paranoid, Stiles. I wasn’t spying on you, I just. You had to stick your nose in hostile territory. If you got yourself killed, Scott would never let me hear the end of it.

Stiles shakes his head and, for the first time in months, he shakes with laughter; he lets go of the weight that’s been lodged in his chest like a casket through his heart, painful and obtrusive but capping a fatal shot. At the end of the road, Beacon Hills stands tall and glorious and the Impala honks close behind them when they drift back to the main road, Dean banging his head to Metallica.

Everything’s back in its right place.

**

For the umpteenth time, Stiles parrots the mantra that’s kept him company for so long.

“I was looking for something and I had to find it on my own.”

A hundred sleepless nights meet their end that morning for John Stilinski, who’s been wondering over and over where’s the flaw in his logic, where’s the error in his ways, where’s the smile that lights his days. He smells vaguely of whiskey and salt, but, as he hugs his only son, there’s nothing important enough to break that moment, so they stay quiet and hold on for the ride.

**

It’s still early when the Impala stops at his driveway and the car horn shakes him out of a light sleep. Stiles welcomes the Winchesters in ratty sweatpants and with a bad case of bedhead, perches himself on the driver’s door, arms folded loosely on the edge of the rolled down window, spilling inside the car. He sticks his head in and Dean gives him a winning smile, turning down the radio for a minute.

“T’was good making business with you,” he says. “Right, Sammy?”

Sam sighs and turns to Stiles, shakes his hand, firm but short. “A pleasure,” and he, too, smiles. A full, dimply smile that makes Stiles shield his eyes and snort, _hey wow don’t want to outshine the sun or anything Sammy_.

Dean hands him a slip of paper with a few phone numbers scrawled in red ink. “You give us a call if you ever come across anything your pups can’t solve. We’re always ready to hit the road.”

Stiles nods his agreement, looks at Castiel, nods gravely towards him and Castiel returns the gesture from the backseat.

“Thanks,” he adds, extricating himself from the car and waving two fingers at them in mock salute. He throws in a puzzling peal of laughter, too.

Dean revvs up, and Stiles laughs again because seriously, Highway To Hell. Dudes are fucking nuts.

**

(Stiles waits. He waits because a month and a half on the road have changed him more than he thought possible. He waits because he’s learnt that sometimes all you can do is wait. He waits because he’s realized that he can be as brave as they come, but there are things he won’t find, even if he tries to. He waits like that night in the woods. He waits like in the motel near Storm Lake. He waits, like he waited just a week ago, in complete darkness along mud trails and deserted tertiary roads halfway between Olympia and California, for Derek to speak first.

He learns patience. And learns of its fruits.)

**

Two weeks and three days.

Derek phones him mid-morning on an overcast Thursday and Stiles reads silently the note his father left him when he awoke for his shift.

(That’s a thing they do now, in case Stiles wants to disappear again. So he can have a word or two to hang onto when the way leads nowhere. They’re nothing special. Just bullet points, the chores that need doing, when he’s getting back home, what’s for lunch. It’s the last line that matters, it always reads, _I love you, son_ , and it never fails to make Stiles a little proud because that’s the man he’s become.)

With his newly acquired taste for unhurriedness, he chews and swallows down the last of his breakfast and gets his phone. Ready to be sharp, or impassive, or friendly. It’s all up to Derek, as it often is.

“There’s a bunch of confused betas with an uncertain future that needs sorting out so. Move your ass down here, long meeting ahead of us.”

The tantrum he was building up to just in case quickly circles down the drain, like the cold mug of coffee he can’t bring himself to finish after hanging up. 

**

What happens is that three of the six betas are sent back home with a couple of training lessons and a pat on the back. Not everyone agrees. The Winchesters, for example, would be just as happy to take them out with a bullet to the heart. It’s just lucky for them that they’re the brawns of the operation. The brains, which consist solely of Stiles because Lydia refuses to get involved in anything that means spending more than five consecutive minutes in the same room with Peter, figure that it’s okay for them to return to their hometowns because their disappearances are recent enough that no one will ask questions when they turn up traumatized and a little mauled. The added advantage is that they won’t have to worry about the scratches Scott gave them during their intensive Werewolf 101. Peter gets tasked with the negotiations. It comes in handy, that the Hales used to be so influential. Peter being so creepy most people will agree to anything as long as they get him to shut up is a nice bonus.

It’s a bit late for the three kids who got bitten up in Illinois and Colorado before Stiles ditched Beacon Hills, though. They still agree that following the events that took place in Olympia Stiles has proved himself as a devoted leader, to Derek’s unending chagrin. After an alarmingly tense stare down between Derek, who _just doesn’t do people_ , Scott, who feels betrayed that not only have they ignored his Alpha status but had the gall to include Stiles in Derek’s pack, and Stiles himself, who’s been thrown in the middle of a bizarre jealousy triangle by his betas – _his_ betas? Jesus, how is this his life again?– they’re all grudgingly admitted to the Beacon Hills Werewolf Club. 

So yes, they stay in town. They sign up for Derek’s pack. And Stiles’, of course. Because they’re an item now, apparently.

All of this doesn’t work in Stiles favor at all, because he needs sleep to function, but he spends and awful lot of time awake and fretting over Holden. The boy looks bulky but he’s just fifteen, used to be popular back in Denver and had friends and plans that might never happen now because all of this is kind of permanent, irreversible, and to top it all he’s going to have to stay off the radar for a long time until people start forgetting his face. Good luck with that.

(Being so considerate, putting everyone before himself; that’s what unmistakably makes him a necessary part of the pack, the glue that holds them all together.)

**

It’s almost three months until everything falls back into place in Beacon Hills. Derek’s becoming more and more adept at dealing with teenagers of the furry, growly variety. He’s taken a liking to Holden, looks out for him like a big brother, and sometimes Stiles thinks it keeps him afloat, having someone rely so heavily on him; that he’s starting to open up, that he’s relearning that not everyone he cares about is going to die a swift, painful death. There’s quite a bit of Derek himself in Holden’s surliness and the tension on his shoulders and that stupid leather jacket Derek gave him, and maybe Derek can see that too, and maybe he’s cautiously starting to follow in Laura’s footsteps.

(Stiles waits.)

**

John Stilinski isn’t the wisest man on Earth. He might not know how to read a bestiary, but he knows how to read his son.

“Why’d you go looking for answers if you’re not using the knowledge to your advantage?”

Stiles just looks at him, hands clasped tight on the dining table, head hung low and shame running free at the truth in his father’s words.

Quietly, he drags himself to the Jeep and drives to the edge of the forest. October is touching down on a slow coda, and it’s so cold his soul is shivering in his bones as he treads the piles of dry, flaking ochre spread over the damp, dormant soil.

The Stiles that waits, that can’t go back, that stumbled upon himself looking for answers on the interstate, greets like a blessing the first reaping of his patience. Subtle rustling of leaves under heavy boots at first, then confident steps just behind his own. Stiles can almost see Derek, gaping like a fish out of water, formulating in his head a thousand starting lines for this conversation, and he smiles to himself, slows to a halt.

There, over the edge of the cliff, all of Beacon Hills shines under his gaze, with its bright lights and its streets bursting with life. If he tries hard he can hear the low thrum that fills the town this time of year, and with his eyes locked on the police station, one of the few buildings he can pinpoint from a distance, he sits back. The memory of the lakeshore, four months ago on a hidden path between Ravendale and Beacon County, paints shadows of a lopsided smirk on his face.

“If I ever catch you again, I’ll report to the Sheriff. He’ll throw your ass in jail. Not so keen on big bad wolves following around his only kid,” he deadpans. The effect is ruined by a subdued chuckle seconds later.

Derek sits by his side.

“I’m sure stalking will be the least of our problems if you say there’s a big bad wolf in town.”

For a couple of blissful minutes, there’s only silence, city lights, the winds of an oncoming storm.

“So, what did you do? When you found what you were looking for. I mean, I guess. Finding it was your goal, but then. You had to do something with that, right? Huh.” He leans back on his hands, head cocked to the side, bites the inside of his cheek contemplatively. “It’s like. You’ve got this insane craving for Skittles, right, but you can’t find any so you drive to the next town over looking for a place that will sell Skittles because they’re your favorite and then when you finally find the place you just… You don’t just stand in front of the Skittles, that would be a waste of time, yeah?”

(Sometimes Stiles feels like he hasn’t changed one bit, with his word vomits and his inherent capacity for screwing things over with the worst timing ever because he just can’t keep his mouth shut and he’s the biggest klutz to ever klutz. But he’s changed, really, he’s not the same. Just, pretty much the same. 10% different, at best.)

Derek throws him a withering look. “Stiles. Let’s say, fucking hell, I can’t believe I’m actually indulging you. Let’s say that I found the place and I just stood in front of the Skittles because it was too much, too good. When you’re on the run for so long, it’s hard to stop so suddenly. Nothing is ever that easy. So I overthink.”

Stiles nods enthusiastically, hoping that it will provide a good enough distraction that Derek won’t notice the way his fingers are skittering over the dirt to bump into his. He kind of ruins the surprise factor when he starts tapping on the back of Derek’s hand nervously.

With the beginnings of a grin creeping up his lips, Stiles murmurs, _don’t you want to taste the rainbow?_ and snorts.

“That’s ridiculously roundabout, Stiles.”

“Your face is ridiculous.”

Derek sighs, rolls his eyes, his head drops back and he whistles heavenward, as if asking for patience. “Goes to show how much you’ve grown up.”

Stiles scoots over, lays his head on Derek’s shoulder and lets go of all the tension he’s been carrying of late.

“Did you get the Skittles?”

“Yeah, Stiles. I got them.”

The small glint of hate in Derek’s eyes only encourages Stiles to press further. “And?”

“And I ate them because I really love Skittles and I bought a shit ton more and jesus fuck Stiles, stop pressing, okay? That’s a stupid thing to say, Skittles, for fuck’s sake, what am I supposed to say. That I struck a deal with the providers and monopolized the production of Skittles?” Again, Derek rolls his eyes so hard they might fall out of their sockets, snorts indignantly, shakes his head and crushes Stiles’ hand. Nobody can blame him, the kid is positively exhausting to deal with.

Amidst a string of _ow, ow Derek fuck you that hurts_ Stiles looks down at their hands, and then at Derek, and then back at their hands, waiting for the other shoe to drop. When it becomes clear that nothing’s going to come of it, he lays back, eyes wandering over the starry canvas that spreads above him like a warm, dark cloak. Derek follows, whistles pensively, a little at a loss.

“I refuse to keep talking in terms of fucking colored candy. It’s stupid, childish and inefficient. You’re so irritating.

“Patience,” Stiles mutters, turning his head to lock his gaze with Derek’s. “Is a virtue that you learn. Now, I’m not the most patient guy in the world, but —”

“We could’ve solved this sooner if you hadn’t learnt so much about patience,” Derek growls, already at the end of his capacity for tolerating Stiles’ unique brand of bullshitting, before grasping for him and crashing on his mouth.

That’s how it happens. In a split second, Stiles is thrown into a faltering kiss, rough and charged with the frustration of a too long wait and the pressing memory of the isolation, the long days on the roads, the freeways and the paths of dirt, the sounds of the forest and the smell of home. This, Stiles thinks, the brush of mouths, the clash of lips and teeth, is the answer he set out to find along the hot tarmac all those days ago. He has to bite his tongue to keep himself from babbling and breaking the moment.

“Spill,” Derek drawls, dizzy with the relief washing over him. “I can hear you fidgeting.”

“Goddamn werewolves and their goddamn superpowers, I’m sure you can even read minds.”

“Not that yours is hard to read, Stiles. You just don’t shut up.”

“Well, now I am. Shutting up, see? Because I don’t want you to know what I’m thinking. I can add invasion of privacy to the list of things the Sheriff should know about you,” he threatens, but the doe eyes and the lopsided smile are dead giveaways. “It’s a silly thing. That’s a thing I do. I say silly things. Like, all the time. Huh.”

“Sillier than comparing yourself to Skittles?”

“Kinda?” Stiles cringes and sucks in a long suffering breath. “Hypothetically speaking. If you, hum, ran out of Skittles. Would you, I don’t know. Cross a couple states, try and find some other place that…?”

“We both can’t be Skittles, Stiles.” Derek sneers.

“Yeah, right, I forgot. I could never compare you to anything remotely sweet,” he retorts.

Derek pinches him on the side.

“That was a hefty deal with the provider for a lifelong supply of tooth rot, Stiles. Gas money will be the least of my worries the day I can’t have any more candy.”

“Am I looking too much into this or are those actual feelings you’re confessing to?” Stiles mock gasps, bringing a hand to his chest.

“You just don’t know when to stop digging do you. I’m taking it back if you don’t stop being ridiculous.”

“Okay, stopping!” Stiles sputters, clamping both hands over his mouth.

“I’m starting to regret this, Stiles.”

Stiles’ whole expression falls, the corners of his mouth sink down and the color drains from his cheeks and he turns his head so quick Derek gets secondhand whiplash. He holds himself like he wants to say something but is trying hard not to, and Derek runs a hand over his hair and down his face before reaching for Stiles.

“Okay, Stiles, you win. Stop fretting. Here,” he begins, thumbs fiddling like this is something terrifying. “You get this once in your life, so listen close. With your penchant for walking into the belly of the shark, you’re not gonna live long enough to forget anyway. Thank god, because I’m not sure I could put up with you in the long haul. You’re so fucking obnoxious,” he mutters disdainfully. “I guess it all boils down to missing your ridiculous ways. I had a lot of time to think. And I thought maybe that this wasn’t so completely preposterous,” he carries on, looking anywhere but at Stiles, visibly straining to keep a steady voice. He’s swirling his hands in the space between them. “And yeah, then I was following you. I wanted to see that you weren’t elbow deep in trouble, and then you decided to tag along with a team of fucking hunters and I just knew it wasn’t going to be pretty, whatever you were getting yourself into. Don’t think you’re on your own, Stiles. You have a pack.”

“Huh, so do you, Derek,” Stiles quietly replies.

“Every time I let you out of my sight you end up dying, or hunted down, or both. There’s always something barking at your door, Stiles, and you’re either naïve or reckless enough to let them in. Give me a break.”

“That was the longest I’ve heard you say in, like, ever, Derek. I hope you know that. How does that speak for the communication in this relationship, I don’t really want problems so early into this, whatever it is. What is it? Because I need to know what to tell my dad, I need to know if I should tell my dad, or, I don’t know, he might shoot you full of lead —”

“God, what have I done.”

“And wait! Did you just make a _dog joke_ , Derek Hale?”

Derek snorts. Smacks Stiles on the shoulder. If he’s lucky, Stiles will completely bypass the part where he grudgingly admits that he likes the scrawny teenager that trips and flails among wolves. It’s the one instance where he’s not even remotely bothered by the fact that yes, he accidentally made a dog joke.

(Stiles does _not_ rejoice in his triumph or sigh like a love ridden schoolgirl.)

**

He’ll deny it to his death bed, but Stiles is the jealous one, and mortifyingly enough he feels _threatened_ when Holden starts developing a healthy adoration for his Alpha.

Derek’s quick to catch wind of it. And he laughs, oh, how he laughs. Until he’s crying and shaking with barely contained mirth.

“I’m twice his age, Stiles,” he reasons.

“So? How much older than Lydia is Peter, again?”

Stiles knows he’s being ridiculous. Derek pulls all the big guns, rubs the heel of his palm on the back of Stiles’ neck, says, _he’s lost, he misses his family, werewolves are tactile_. Stiles still bites the inside of his cheek and glares daggers whenever the kid’s around. He pretends that it’s not a big deal just to appease Derek, hums and nods in all the right places when he says that Stiles is it for him, in his strange, hardly comprehensible ways.

(He also makes god damn sure that Holden is around to witness him pinning Derek on the kitchen door, yanking down his evil, sinfully tight jeans, biting the insides of his thighs and grabbing his hips hard enough that there are bruises continually healing under his unyielding touch. And if there’s a mischievous glint to his eyes, if he gloats in anticipation, if there’s a vicious edge to his smirk, well, all the better.)

**

The real fun comes with the first pack meeting. It’s a thing they do, to bond and stuff. Stiles isn’t sure, when he pulls the Jeep into park, which team he’s representing here. Isaac solves the problem as soon as he sniffs him.

“Jesus, you _reek_ of Derek, do you actually roll around in his sheets behind his back or what.” And then. “Oh god. You can’t be serious.”

Isaac grimaces and Stiles tries not to choke on his laughter because Derek is honest to god blushing. Blood still rising to the surface of his cheeks, Derek pushes Stiles back so hard he staggers before regaining his footing and stares menacingly at Isaac, a nasty smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“A wolf’s gotta mark his territory, Isaac,” he says, petulance and confidence oozing from him, and hoo boy, doesn’t Stiles just love it when Derek goes crazy possessive and he gets to goad him and promise, _there’s only you, baby, no need to worry_.

Scott groans in the background and Holden mutters, _gross_ , and that’s it, they’re all making nice over Stiles’ sexual life. Charming.

**

Derek has a secret, too. He’ll never admit it, afraid that it will encourage Stiles further, but the kid owns an impressive collection of superhero underwear, and it’s so childish and ludicrous and inherently Stiles that Derek can’t help but love it, growl and paw at the spider web design spanning across Stiles’ hip and thigh. And Stiles, the bastard, he smirks like he knows something he shouldn’t, but well. It’s not like Derek didn’t know what he was walking into.

At least the Sheriff hasn’t shot him full of wolfsbane. Yet.

(He healed that one time, but lead bullets still hurt like a motherfucker.)

**Author's Note:**

> So, that was it!
> 
> I don't feel so convinced with the end result. There's too little angst, too much fluff, in retrospect it's not exactly what I'd planned when I was first sent the prompt, but hey, what can you do, sometimes what you create takes a completely different course and being a good artist in general means letting go of the first drafts to let creation take its own path. Characters are alive inside their verses and there's got to be room for growth. You can't always stick to the plan and expect everything to make perfect sense because the point where Character A stands at the beginning of your story isn't the same where he stands at the end. You hear that, Jeff Davis?
> 
> Anyway, I'm rambling. Thanks for making it this far, please do follow me on Tumblr, I'm [theyjusthowl](http://theyjusthowl.tumblr.com) over there!


End file.
